


In Vino Veritas

by lolo313



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Drunkenness, Dubious Consent, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-14 00:23:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1245781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolo313/pseuds/lolo313
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are a dark man when you drink, Arthur Pendragon...but then why do I keep coming back for more?</p>
<p>In wine there is truth, but also the dissolution of all we had hoped to hide. What secrets will be confronted when Arthur turns to drink when Merlin is hurt?</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Vino Veritas

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Reverie_Indigo for your help with the italics; credit has been added to your karma account. 
> 
> But, as always, please feel free to add emphasis where you'd like.

The breeze that blew through the practice grounds held a crisp edge, a chill that crept beneath your jerkin and pressed itself against your bare skin till you shivered. It belied autumn’s end and the imminent coming of winter. All throughout Camelot the people were felling trees for firewood, stockpiling reserves of food, tanning leathers and trimming furs for use in cloaks and coats. The fields had long been reaped and now lay dormant, waiting for the joyous rebirth come spring. One by one hearths began to reawaken with red, gaping yawns and bursts of smoke as the nights grew colder with each passing day. With their labors set aside for the winter months farmers hung up their tools, nobles rolled up parchments detailing tax revenues, and everyone relaxed. Taverns reported record numbers, feasts were held for no reason other than the merriment and warmth they promised to provide, and despite the cold a general sense of revelry began to pervade every heart and home within the kingdom.

Save, of course, for that of Prince Arthur’s. True, much like everyone else, he had had fires placed in the hearth every night before bed and had taken to wearing his fur-lined cloak when out riding, still Arthur was woe to allow even the slightest slack to invade the daily training sessions, lest his knights were to become, in his own words, “lackadaisical girls.” And so, despite biting winds and red fingers, the knights trained on, two hours every afternoon, drilling formations, practicing marching and marksmanship, dueling with sword, shield, and mace, until the Prince was satisfied and everyone was worried about frostbite.

This meant, of course, that Merlin spent every afternoon outside as well. He had tried, with little success, to explain to Arthur that there was an unconscionable amount of chores that needed attending to within the castle (armor to be polished, beds to be made, not to mention poor old Gaius!) but the Prince remained unconvinced.

“I need you there,” Arthur stated, in that rather pratish, royal manner he at times used when, with a sigh and furrowed brow, he deigned to respond to one of Merlin’s plaintive complaints.

“But for what?” Merlin whined in exasperation, trotting along behind the Prince, breath billowing out in white puffs before his face. “To watch you swing your sword about? I can do that anytime.”

“You will do it when I command you to do it, and that’s final.” The firm set of his jaw, not to mention the tone of his voice, invited no retaliation. So Merlin took up his habitual place by the weapons rack, hugged his coat a little closer around his shoulders, and tried to rub some warmth back into his fingers.

It had been like this for the past few weeks—Merlin didn’t mean the obligatory training sessions, those were old news—rather Arthur’s curt, authoritative demeanor. True it was not unreasonable for a Prince to order his subjects around, but it had never been Arthur’s way. He inspired courage in his men, being the first to lead the charge, no matter the danger to life and limb. Or else he earned the respect and love of the little folk, distributing alms when famine struck and regarding every claim brought to the court as worthy of his time and attention, regardless of the petitioner’s social standing. Even though he jested at times, Merlin knew in his heart that Arthur viewed him as no lesser than one of his most trusted knights (albeit a good bit less handy with a broadsword). So where had this sudden change sprung from?

Shy of two months ago, the Prince had undertaken a short hunting trip. Deer, like most creatures of the forest, being more in tune with the ebb and flow of nature, had, sensing the chill lurking on autumn’s horizon, been moving through the woods west of the city, making their way to some southern glen to better bed down for the winter. Arthur, upon hearing some huntsmen’s talk in the streets one day, thought this a grand occasion to bag a few bucks and shore up the castle’s supply of venison before the season was out. Seeing as the prey was out in such abundance, he decided that the hunting party need not be a large one, that in fact a small troupe would be able to move more efficiently (not to mention stealthily) and thus better surprise the unsuspecting game. How small? Well, Arthur himself, of course, and then he’d need Merlin to carry all of his gear, and since his servant bungled even the simplest tasks while accounting for the noise of at least four men, why don’t they just stick with two and quit while they’re ahead? And so late one morning, as the sun shone upon the courtyard, warming the stones and the guards on sentry, Arthur and Merlin set off on loaded horseback, a bow strung across the Prince’s back, his servant cantering happily alongside.

The hunt was immensely successful. The huntsmen’s boasts had been true, not just tavern talk as Merlin had feared. The forests teemed with antlered life, and they had been out not but an hour when Arthur brought down his second catch. Spirit soared as the two men stalked through the trees, and Arthur didn’t even seem to mind (too much) when Merlin inevitably snapped a twig underfoot or tripped over an uplifted root. When out of sight of the prey, Arthur joked jovially with his servant, recounting past hunting trip, jousting blunders or victories, and his favorite feasts from childhood. Lost as they were in recollection, time got the better of them, and before long the sun had begun to set, lighting the leaves of the trees ablaze with golden, shimmering fire. By the time they returned to where they had tethered the horses and loaded up their rather hefty catch, night was already descending upon the forest. As Merlin tugged a buckle tight on his horse’s saddle, Arthur turned and inspected the rapidly disappearing trail.

“We’ll have to camp here for the night,” Arthur stated, unhitching the bedroll from off his steed’s back. “It’s too dark to ride back now. We’ll have to wait till morning.”

“What,” Merlin gaped incredulously, “and sleep out here?”

“Don’t be such a lady’s petticoat, Merlin. One night on the ground won’t kill you,” the Prince scoffed, unfurling his bedroll in a clearing he had made by kicking away scattered rocks and bramble.

“But I didn’t bring a blanket or anything! You said we’d only be out for the day!”

“No, I said we’d _probably_ only be out for the day, and it’s not my fault you never listen or come prepared. No why don’t you gather us up some firewood while I set camp.”

When Merlin returned, arms charged with kindling, having had a proper sulk, Arthur had already dressed one of the smaller deer, long strips of meat skewered, waiting to be set over a roaring fire. With short work they had a blaze burning, and Merlin’s spirits couldn’t help but lift at the succulent smell of fat and juices as they sizzled and roasted over the flames. Arthur had even thought to bring a skin of mulled wine, which they passed back and worth, and in no time at all they had rediscovered their easy, lighthearted ways from earlier, sending laughter high up to the topmost branches of the surrounding trees. Awhile later, bellies full and heads slightly buoyant from the spirituous beverage, Prince and servant prepared for bed. Well, Arthur prepared for bed, stretching out upon his spread blanket with a great yawn. Merlin, on the other hand, glumly circled their little camp, desperately searching in vain for a patch of dirt that could serve as a bed for the night. After five minutes of watching his servant pace about despondently, Arthur let out a great sigh of resignation.

“Get over here,” he said, shifting his weight on the bedroll so a thin swath of blanket became visible. Merlin paused and looked up quizzically. He eyed the Prince and the strip of bedding. Dumbly pointing at himself, finger pressed into his chest, he gestured to the bedroll, then back to himself, then once more to the bedroll. “Yes, yes,” Arthur groaned beckoning Merlin over with a swing of his arm, “just hurry up so we can get some sleep.”

Grinning like the cat who got the canary, Merlin bounded over to Arthur and plopped himself down beside the Prince. But before he could even open his mouth to say thank you (and, truth be told, ask him to scoot over just a smidge) Arthur held up a finger, not an inch from Merlin’s red-tipped nose.

“Not a word of this to anyone back in the castle,” Arthur warned, and it was only now that Merlin noticed the slightest slur in his speech. “It would not be becoming for a Prince to share a bed with a servant. Especially not one like you.” Merlin rolled his eyes and laughed.

“Well I wouldn’t really call this a bed,” Merlin joked, patting the thin bedroll, beneath which it was not difficult to feel the unrelenting ground and the odd pebble, “and besides, you’re not like most Princes.” Arthur cocked an eyebrow, amused.

“And have you met many Princes? I never realized Ealdor was such a royal hotbed.”

“No,” Merlin punctuated his response with a gentle shove to Arthur’s shoulder, “I just mean…you’re different. You don’t act like a Prince. In a good way.” Merlin smiled openly, and would have gone on, but Arthur rolled over onto his side, turning his back to his servant.

“We should really get some rest, we ride early tomorrow.”

Merlin fidgeted for the next half hour or so, trying his best to get comfortable without elbowing Arthur in the back of the head. He eventually ended up lying on his stomach, half on the blanket and half on the ground, a hair’s breadth between his flank and the Prince’s back, watching the glow from the campfire’s embers slowly fade. Before the final spark was extinguished, Merlin had fallen fast asleep.

He awoke with a start some hours later. As his eyes snapped open they met with the inky darkness of midnight; he could not even see his own hand, curled up against his shoulder. The muscles of his back ached (the ground offered no bend to his spine), but instinct urged him to remain motionless. What was it, what had roused him so suddenly from slumber? The canopy of leaves overheard obscured what little starlight escaped through the cloud cover, Merlin’s sight was useless to him. He reached out with his other senses, searching for the barest hint of—

It was then he felt the breath against the back of his neck. It was the warmth of it, unnatural and startling in the chill of night, rolling across his nape, which first alerted him. It came with a steady, controlled rhythm, brushing the hairs on the back of Merlin’s head like a gentle, gloved hand. His heart began to pound—what manner of beast could have so easily taken them unawares? How had it happened upon them, gotten so close, without waking them? Was it curious, or, he shivered with fear, hungry? Would Arthur be able to get to his sword in time to— _Oh God_ , Merlin shuddered in abject terror, _if the beast was right beside him, where was Arthur_?

But all thought ceased when a firm hand grasped his shoulder. Merlin’s eyes darted, bulging in their sockets, to alight upon the foreign digits. Through the blackness he peered, straining against the obscurity, willing his eyes ever wider, until he perceived the faintest glint of silver wrapped round one of the fingers. A ring, he was certain of it, and as he stared it dawned on him, that strange familiarity was not unaccountable…it was Arthur’s ring. Connections suddenly blossomed in Merlin’s mind, joining the breath to the hand, both of which certainly belonged to the Prince lying mere inches beside the startled Sorcerer. Merlin felt his face grow hot with embarrassment—how could he be so stupid as to fall for one of Arthur’s pranks? It was no secret Merlin was prone to jumpiness (you would be too, had you seen and experienced all that the young man had in his few, short years) and he scared easily. Far be it for Arthur to pass up an opportunity such as this to frighten his friend.

“Ha ha,” Merlin laughed sardonically as he shrugged Arthur’s hand off with a brisk shake of his shoulder, shifting to relieve some of the tension in his lower back, “very funny, you got me. Now let me get some sleep.” He could feel Arthur’s body stiffen beside him, no doubt gone rigid with surprise at having been foiled. He heard him roll over, felt the blanket tug slightly as he moved a little farther away. But Merlin never noticed that the Prince did not slumber that night, was not aware that his breath never evened out, never slowed to that languid sleeper’s pace, did not sense that the taunt muscles coiled beside him never relaxed, for as soon as his heart stopped racing, and with a toothy yawn, he was once more fast asleep.

The mood was sour the next morning, the Prince surly and morose as they packed up their camp in silence. _Really though_ , Merlin thought to himself as he saddled his horse, _it was just a spoiled prank, no reason to sulk about it_. Assuming he would cheer up in due time, Merlin left Arthur to pout as they made for Camelot, the ground still fresh with morning dew. And, little by little, the Prince’s countenance lightened so he did not seem quite so terribly glum, and by the time the castle was in sight Arthur was bantering and needling, just like his old self. Merlin thought it best not to mention the jest, deciding that any apology he might weasel out of Arthur was not worth the loss of his friend’s good temper.

Life continued on much as it always had, though Merlin couldn’t help but notice a renewed vigor in Arthur’s training. He was accustomed to seeing Arthur push himself far harder than any of his other knights, and a certain degree of supplementary rigor was expected of Camelot’s Crown Prince. But never before had he thrown himself into it with such ferocity, drilling until a maneuver was perfect, no matter how long it took, or else dueling with each knight, one, two, even three times, until his body was spotted with bruises, his armor dented nearly beyond repair. Some had begun to worry, knight and servant alike murmuring behind their hands. Even Uther took notice, mentioning at dinner one evening that perhaps it would be best to forgo some of the training sessions, lest the best knight in the kingdom collapse from exhaustion. But Arthur brushed off these concerns with a grin, assuring everyone that he had never felt better. And so the daily routine continued and it became common practice for the Prince to linger on the training grounds long after he had dismissed his men for the day, sometimes staying for an hour or more, practicing footwork or archery or some other knightly art.

Today was no exception. The knights, battered and beaten (not to mention freezing) had been released nearly three bell tolls ago, yet still Arthur remained, darting this way and that around a suit of armor set up on stakes in the yard, his sword singing out in a cacophonous clang each time it smacked into the dummy’s helmet. Merlin had hoped to sneak back off into the castle with the rest of the men, but before he had taken two steps Arthur had caught him in his gaze, sending him back to idle by the sword rack with a jerk of his head. He wasn’t even sure why Arthur made him stay for these extra sessions—it wasn’t like he helped in any way. They never sparred together (Arthur stated that the dummy put up a better defense than Merlin ever could) and he hardly ever asked for him to fetch anything, most practice equipment being within arm’s reach. He didn’t even have him undress him; once he was sufficiently fatigued, Arthur would dismiss Merlin for the afternoon before dragging himself back to his chambers to collapse, armor and all, onto his bed and nap until supper.

_Probably just likes an audience_ , Merlin scowled inwardly as he tugged his coat a little closer, _big, royal prat that he is_. Just then a rough breeze ran through the grounds, tousling the servant’s hair, and Merlin couldn’t contain an explosive sneeze that shook his entire body. Prince or not, he wasn’t worth catching a cold over. Sniffling, Merlin made his way across the yard towards Arthur, who continued to swing and swipe in broad strokes, completely unaware of the weather’s turn. Though he was loath to admit it, there was a certain joy in watching Arthur practice—it was no exaggeration to call him the best knight in Camelot, and the intensity with which he worked himself was electrifying. He was so absorbed in his training, so focused, it was as if he existed in a different world in and of itself, a world of sinews and swordplay, of retorts and parries. Merlin was so absorbed in his begrudging admiration that he didn’t notice the gauntlet at his feet and it was only as he lost his balance and began to topple forward that he realized the gravity of his mistake.

Arthur spun about on his heel on instinct, elbows crooked beneath his shoulders, sword extended in a killing blow. Merlin wondered morbidly what Arthur had thought he was attacking, what foe he had imagined sneaking up on him, seconds before his eyes alighted in shocked horror upon his servant’s face. But the Prince’s stance was too sure, his strike too swift, the distance between them too minimal—there was no way he could deflect the blow in such a way that it would not strike the dark-haired man. And there was no way Merlin could dodge it, tumbling forward as it was, bereft of equilibrium. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the keen edge of the blade glint in the late afternoon light as it soared through the air, straight for his throat. He did not have time to react or think; rather, some deep part of himself, some ancient portion of his blood, surged to life. Merlin felt it coming, and despite himself fought to stop it. _No_ , he pleaded, _no not now, not in front of him_. But the urge to survive is stronger than any shame. His eyes flashed gold and the sword twisted roughly in Arthur’s hand. It continued to hiss through the air at lightning speed but now it was the flat of the blade, not the edge, which sailed towards the Sorcerer.

Merlin felt the cold, unforgiving steal slam into the side of his head. His skull rattled violently as he pitched sideways from the force of the blow. A thin trickle of blood ran down from his ear as the ground rushed up to catch him. And then—nothing.

* * *

Merlin regained consciousness slowly, much in the way one wakes when roused from a deep sleep cut short. When he first cracked open his eyes he found the light in the room blinding and quickly shut them again, squeezing them tight. Then the throbbing came, pulsing, as if stone masons were making a quarry out of his skull. He tried to sit up, arms pushing against the bedding beneath him, but a wave of nausea swept through him and he fell back down onto the pillow.

“Don’t move, you’re still weak.” The voice, along with the blanket draped over his body, was familiar. Merlin blinked open his eyes once more, shielding them from the worst of the glare with his hand.

He was in his room, the bed and pillow his own. The clothes he wore were the same he remembered dressing in that morning, save for his boots, which someone had removed and placed by the foot of the bed. Multiple candles were burning around the room; through the window Merlin could see that night had fallen, though he had no idea how late it was exactly. Tentatively he brought a hand up to the side of his head, fingers probing the tender and swollen flesh. Stuffed into his ear was a thick wad of stiff cotton; when he drew his hand back, his fingers were speckled with flakes of dried blood.

“I brought you to Gaius, I didn’t know what else to do.” Only now did Merlin turn to look at the far side of the room, only now did he notice Arthur, hunched over a chair in the corner. His face was haggard and thin, with heavy bags beneath his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept in days even though Merlin estimated that he couldn’t have been unconscious for more than a few hours. Had Arthur waited by his bedside the entire time? Surely Gaius would have assured him that he would make a full recovery and that the Prince attending to him would be quite unnecessary. What was he so worried about?

And then, in a flash, Merlin remembered everything—the sword flying towards him through the air, the magic, uncalled, rising unbidden, the blade, the ground. So Arthur had seen, must have seen, could not have not seen, and now he knew. Why else would a Prince wait by a servant’s side as he lied prone in bed, but to prevent a known sorcerer from escaping Camelot’s justice? Why else would his eyes seem so hauntingly hollow if he were not tormented by his supposed friend’s lies and betrayal? Arthur saw the creases deepen across Merlin’s forward and stood up, striding across the tiny room.

“Are you alright? Do you want me to fetch Gaius?” The Prince asked, voice pregnant with concern, reaching out a hand to brush the strands of hair, wet with sweat, from the young man’s forehead. But all Merlin could see was Uther’s hand, gnarled with hate, grasping for his neck, seeking to choke out the every last tendril of magic left in the land. He flinched; Arthur drew back his hand as if burned. Curling his fingers into a fist, Arthur let his arm drop back down to his side. For a long moment the two men stared at each other, neither one daring to draw a breath. Finally, with a quick cough to clear his throat, Arthur broke the heavy silence.

“I should be getting back to my duties. Glad to see you’re alright.” Arthur made for the door, pausing as he reached the wooden frame. He hung his head, chin practically resting against his chest. He did not turn to look back at Merlin as he said,

“Why don’t you take the next few days to recover? I can manage on my own.” And with that he disappeared.

* * *

The days that followed were torture.

Merlin was, according to Gaius, the worst type of patient, the one who refused to follow even the simplest of instructions, regardless if they were for his own wellbeing or not. The court physician had lost count how many times he had come back to his chambers to find Merlin out of bed, puttering about the room getting into this or that. And no matter how much Merlin argued that, _really he felt fine_ , Gaius would insist on guiding him back to bed to spend the next few interminable hours prostrate beneath his blanket, staring blankly up at the ceiling.

It’s not that Merlin was ungrateful, not in the least; he had truly appreciated the rest the first day after the accident, but he had felt right as rain when he awoke the next morning, eager to return to work. But Gaius would not hear of it, forcing him back to bed, practically force-feeding him soup when he resisted. He knew the old man only meant well, but the waiting was insufferable. Though, truth be told, it was not the waiting itself, not the seconds, minutes, hours spent laid out on his bed that wore down on the Sorcerer’s mind till he was certain he would go mad, that ravaged his already frazzled psyche—it was what the waiting held within itself. It was the uncertainty, the fact that the exact moment was unknowable, that any second the guards could come bursting into his room, could clap him in irons and drag him to the pyre—

“Merlin?” Gaius asked, worry evident in the pause after his name, “Are you feeling quite right?”

Gaius, of course, did his best to assure Merlin that everything was alright, that he had not heard the slightest whisper from Uther or any member of the court that there was the least suspicion of there being a sorcerer in Camelot, let alone within the castle walls themselves. Still, Merlin found it hard to sleep at night, plagued as he was with nightmares and visions of fire and death, Arthur’s cold, uncaring face staring at him through the all-consuming flames. What a monumental relief it was then when, three days hence, Gaius finally gave Merlin a clean bill of health and told him that, he supposed, if he were really that eager, he could return to his regular duties.

The cooks and servants in the kitchen were overjoyed to see Merlin back on his feet, grinning from ear to ear, the maids pinching his cheeks as they handed him a plate loaded with meat, cheese, and bread for Arthur’s breakfast. He had been unable to contain himself, waking a full hour earlier than usual to pace his tiny room in anticipation till Gaius threw him out in a groggy huff. It was just that Merlin was certain that if he only talked to Arthur, explained what he saw then maybe, just maybe…

There was the gentlest of squeaks as her eased open the door to Arthur’s chambers, slipping in with a hush before shutting the door behind him. The room was filled with a warm darkness, the kind that comes from morning sunlight filtering through heavy, drawn curtains. From where he stood by the doorway Merlin could just make out a mass of rising and falling blankets on the bed; Arthur had not stirred when he entered the room. He set the laden plate down on the table before making for the windows. With fistfuls of curtain Merlin flung open the shades as light flooded the room. From behind him came a series of aggregated grunts as the Prince slowly came round.

“What’s the story morning glory?” Merlin chimed as he spun around, hands sitting jovially on his hips in the hopes of distracting himself from the furious pounding in his chest. Arthur, eyes twisted shut, rose on an elbow, his other arm lifted above his face so a thin shadow fell across it. He blinked slowly, and as he adjusted to the sudden light the shadowed figure standing before the window gradually took shape, transforming into his loyal servant.

“Merlin!” Arthur shot up in bed, instantly awake. Merlin couldn’t put his finger on why, but the way the morning rays caught the blue of Arthur’s eyes, the way they danced there and made them sparkle, calmed his scattered nerves. The corners of the Prince’s mouth turned up so his cheeks rose and grew full. “I’m…I’m glad to see you’re all better.”

“You know me, always one to bounce back.” Arthur’s grin grew even wider, the white of his teeth almost glaring in the sunlight. Merlin strode forward, arms outstretched. “Aw, come here you, did you miss me that much?” The Prince stiffened as the Sorcerer threw his lanky arms around him in a quick embrace, but the dark-haired man did not seem to notice.

“Miss you? Please, it’s just impossible finding new servants this time of year.” Arthur brushed Merlin aside, rising to his feet to grab his breakfast from the table. Almost without pausing to breathe the Prince devoured his meal standing, stuffing slices of turkey and cheese into a mouth already full to bursting of bread until his cheeks grew distended. Had Merlin been watching, had he not been preoccupied with making up the bed, he would have noticed that Arthur’s hands shook so violently that the silver plate threatened to crash onto the stone floor, food and all. When he had finished eating (somehow without choking) he hastily dressed himself, ordering Merlin instead to clear away breakfast, along with a bevy of other mundane chores that needed seeing to, before dashing out the door to some princely business or other.

And so life returned to its regular rhythm, more or less. Arthur trained with his knights, Gaius prepared tinctures and poultices, Uther dealt with matters of state, Morgana visited beggars and distributed food in the lower town, Gwen saw to the laundry and her Lady’s needs, and Merlin, well, Merlin did what he had always done—serve Arthur. Whether he was polishing a rather faded piece of armor, or mending a torn tunic, it seemed that every waking moment of his day Merlin was busy rushing through a seemingly endless list of tasks, to which Arthur would thoughtlessly add whenever the fancy struck him. It was almost as if the Prince were attempting to make up for the time last while his servant was convalescing and then some.

Arthur did not seem to suffer too greatly while Merlin was away though; he seemed to have grown more self-reliant over the past few days. He no longer required Merlin to help dress him in the morning—in fact, the Prince had taken to waking before Merlin even arrived, so that when his servant walked through the door he was greeted by a fully-dressed Arthur, who promptly took his meal and went on his way, leaving Merlin to tidy the room in his wake. Nor did he require the Sorcerer to attend the daily afternoon training sessions, jesting that, knowing Merlin’s luck (or lack thereof) the next time he’d take his head clean off, and besides, wouldn’t his time be better spent mucking out the stables or organizing his boots? Arthur even went so far as to dismiss him after dinner, waving off his protests with a flick of his wrist, assuring Merlin he was more than capable of tucking himself into bed.

Merlin was unaccustomed to such an abundance of free time, and at first thought to assist Gaius with his daily errands, collecting herbs or measuring out liquids for this or that potion. But Merlin found himself too easily distracted, carried off by each passing fancy, only to return to the vial he had been charged with watching boiling over onto the table and floor. Nor did he possess the delicate grace and coordination required for such a subtle and noble art as medicine. When, in his haste to fetch a pot of ground nutmeg across the room, he knocked his third jar that day onto the floor Gaius pointedly suggested that perhaps he should go find Arthur and make sure he had not forgotten some important task that needed doing.

So Merlin found himself wandering the castle’s winding hallways and endless staircases looking for Arthur. He was not in his chambers, and none of the guards he inquired after could give him any indication where the Prince had disappeared to. Poking his head out a high window Merlin ascertained that he was not in the courtyard or the training ground. Neither Morgana nor Gwen had seen him since dinner, and Merlin was about to head to the tavern in the lower town as a last resort, when, crossing in front of Uther’s chambers he heard a familiar, ringing voice, raised in annoyed consternation.

“It’s just a stupid feast, I don’t see why I have to attend every single one!”

“Because you are the Crown Prince of Camelot and it would not do for you to miss it. Certain things are expected of you Arthur, you should know that by now.”

“But father—”

“Enough! You will be in attendance and I shall hear nothing further on the matter.”

Merlin barely had time to duck behind a column as the door swung open, slamming into the wall hard enough to chip the wood. Arthur stalked out of his father’s room in a rage, hands clenched in fists, arms tensed tight against his sides. The Prince was halfway down the corridor before Merlin remembered the reason why he was out and about in the first place.

“Arthur?” Merlin called down the hallway, coming out from where he had been hiding. Arthur spun swiftly on his heel, visage set in a stony scowl. But when he saw who had called him he froze and it was as if he began to melt, the tension seeping out of his muscles. Gradually he relaxed his hands and his face softened.

“What do you want Merlin?” Such an awful weariness in his voice, as if he hadn’t slept in days. Perhaps Gaius was right, perhaps Arthur did need him to help out more, but was reluctant to ask due to his recent injury. The servant felt terribly selfish, berating himself for not insisting when Arthur prematurely dismissed him.

“I just thought maybe there was something I could do?”

“I told you I’m fine, why don’t you turn in for the night?” Arthur started to turn back but Merlin stepped forward down the corridor, doing his best to put a light, gay air into his voice.

“I sure am excited for that feast!” Arthur did not reply, only grunted noncommittally. “Dancers, minstrels, oh not to mention the food! And the—”

“Was there something else you wanted?” Arthur cut him off his a curt glance.

“…no Sire.” Arthur gave his servant a quick smile and, with a slight nod of his head, went to bed.

They did not speak of the feast again until the day it was upon them. The whole castle was alive with frenzied preparations; the cooks rose before dawn to steam, stew, and spice the veritable cornucopia of delicacies to mouth-watering perfection, the scullery maids were busy washing and mending the nobles’ finest garments, and every spare hand was put to transforming the great hall into a bazaar of wonder and merriment. Even Merlin wasn’t exempt from setting up tables and arranging chairs for the evening’s festivities. He had not seen Arthur since morning, but every time he passed a window the clamorous clang of metal upon metal reminded him that the Prince was busily beating away in the practice yard. It was no secret he had been sulking about his father’s stern insistence upon his attendance, and Merlin supposed that this was his way of working his feelings out till he once more regained his former composure. The Sorcerer was not overly concerned about the Prince’s mood; he would be beside Arthur the whole evening, and if he grew too sour his servant would be right there to lift his spirits. He’d said as much this morning when he brought Arthur his breakfast, but the Prince had only stared blankly, telling him he didn’t have much appetite.

Before long night fell and the great hall buzzed with levity and mirth. Every chair (and a few pieces of floor) was filled with Lords and Ladies from all over Camelot, squeezed alongside knights and honored guests, the tables before them spilling over with succulent meat pies and steaming piles of roasted vegetables. In the open heart of the hall minstrels cartwheeled about, bells tied to their ankles jingling with every turn, as fire-breathers belched forth great flaming infernos, to everyone’s great awe and amazement. There were flutists and lyrist, drummers and mummers, so the air filled with sweet, melodious symphonies (when not drowned out by a particularly boisterous round of laughter and applause). Every heart soared with cheer as desserts crowded what little space remained on the tables and the wine cellars were gradually depleted.

Well, not every heart. Throughout the evening Arthur slumped morosely in his chair at the high table, seemingly indifferent to the joy around him. His food went untouched, his face never cracked even the slightest of grins, unmoved by the jesters and their playful ministrations. One could have easily thought the Prince asleep were it not for his thirst which led him to drain his goblet of wine every few minutes. Merlin noticed that Arthur’s cup had once more run dry; he stepped forward round the Prince’s chair, behind which he had taken up sentry at the beginning of the feast. Arthur did not glance up as Merlin refilled his drink, only brought the grail up to his lips to take a lengthy swallow.

“Merlin? Be a dear, won’t you?” Merlin lifted his head to look at Morgana, seated beside Arthur, who held out her own empty cup. Rather than maneuver around the cumbersome chairs, Merlin leaned across Arthur, hand on the Prince’s shoulder to steady himself, as he reached out the wine jug, ruby liquid splashing into Morgana’s goblet. She gave him a generous smile once her cup was full, taking a delicate sip before setting it back down and turning once more to watch the jugglers perform. Merlin pushed back off of Arthur to straighten up, curious as to how, for one who had already drunk so much, he could be so tense and stiff. Before he had even begun to turn away Arthur drained his cup, sliding it across the table towards his servant. Merlin eyed Arthur with concern, but obeyed, bowing to fill his goblet.

The evening wore on, and what began as a trickle of one or two guests bidding their adieus grew to a deluge as nobles, pink-cheeked, teetering precariously on unsteady feet, thanked the King for his gracious hospitality before stumbling off to bed. Merlin watched as, one by one, the performers and other servants were dismissed, a tart or pitcher of wine tucked snugly beneath a cloak. The royals, first to arrive, were some of the last to leave; Morgana, rosy hued, assured Gwen she could make her way to her bedroom by herself, but gripped the maid’s offered hand nonetheless, while Uther invited a few of his closest allies to share a nightcap of brandy with him in his chambers for bed. That just left Arthur and Merlin. The Prince was sodden with drink and Merlin doubted whether he noticed they were the last remaining people in the hall. Setting down his pitcher, he slung Arthur’s arm round his shoulders and hoisted the inebriated Prince to his feet. Arthur protested, or at least that is what Merlin assumed he was doing, since his words fell incomprehensible and strange from his lush tongue. Soon though, Arthur fell into tipsy step beside him, allowing himself to be guided back to his quarters.

No fire had been light in the room, Merlin miscalculating just how long Arthur would linger at the feast, so the trek to Arthur’s bed was illuminated solely by the elongated rectangle of light cast from the doorway. Only stubbing his toe twice, Merlin led Arthur through the darkness before setting him down on the mattress. The Prince hung drunkenly over his knees, face propped precariously in his hands. Once he was certain the blond-haired man would not topple over on top of him, Merlin knelt as Arthur’s feet and began working off his shoes.

“Kiss my boot.”

Merlin paused, uncertain at first if Arthur had actually spoken. He looked up, eyes squinting to make out Arthur’s face in the near obscurity.

“Arthur, what did—”

“Sire.” The single word was not meant to address Merlin, but correct him. His tone was slurred yet heavy, his gaze cold and frighteningly unfamiliar—Merlin had never seem him look at him that way before, at least never while awake. He tried to swallow but his mouth had run dry. His pulse raced.

“Sire?” Merlin whispered.

“Kiss my boot.” The command warranted no response but obedience.

Merlin’s breath sounded thunderous in his ears as he placed his hands on the floor, lowering his face to Arthur’s offered foot. The hide was soft and supple as his lips brushed against it, forgetting that he had buffed the boots just this morning. A thick scent of leather mingle with polish invaded his nose. How long was he to stay like this? He did not want to rouse Arthur’s drunken anger for lingering or withdrawing too quickly. When at last he finally lifted his head, two wet crescents where his mouth had been shone out through the blackness. Merlin’s face burned red hot with shame and something else, something that terrified him too much to name. Arthur did not blink as he took in the sight of him, face hauntingly void of expression.

“That will be all, Merlin.”

Merlin rose from his hands and knees and fled from the room without so much as a cursory glance backwards. His footfalls echoed resoundingly as he beat a path through the castle, chest tight against his strained inhalations. He did not stop running until he reached Gaius’s chambers, throwing open the door to dash inside. The court physician had long since fallen asleep, curled up on his tiny bed. Merlin thanked the forces that be for the old man’s third cup of wine which now kept him dreaming peacefully as Merlin scrambled noisily up the stairs to his room.

As soon as the door was shut, his back pressed firm against it, Merlin tore at the strings of his britches, hand greedily reaching for himself. Cupping a slick palm over his mouth to stifle a moan the young man began working away, arm jerking with the speed of a man possessed. His body felt clammy and hot, he wanted nothing more than to tear his tunic off, wanted to rip the Pendragon heraldry from his chest, but he was far too consumed with his desperate ministrations. Merlin could not begin to explain what compelled him to such an act, why his blood seared in his veins, he could only succumb to the delirious bliss of self-indulgence. Dirty nails clawed at the skin of his cheek as his pace quickened, warm breath seeping out between his fingers. His hips rolled and bucked against the door with such force he feared he would knock it from its hinges but he could not contain himself for much longer. Throat gripped in a strangled gasp Merlin spilled out onto his hand, coating his fingers in hot, viscous strands of milky whiteness. He sunk down onto his knees, suddenly exhausted. Wiping the evidence on his trousers, the Sorcerer crawled to his bedside, heaving himself onto the thin mattress. For the briefest instant, Arthur’s face hovered above his own, and for a moment clarity shone through the night, but then it was gone, swallowed up as Merlin collapsed into a weary and immediate slumber.

When Merlin walked into Arthur’s room the next morning he found the Prince still asleep, head buried beneath a pillow. Setting his master’s breakfast down on the table, he moved about the room, picking up Arthur’s discarded effects. It would seem that, after Merlin’s departure, Arthur had undressed in haste, flinging his clothes about the room in a scattered mess. He had just folded the last article over his arm, thinking it best to let the Prince sleep off the evening’s revelries a while longer, when a groan from the mass of blankets on the bed caused the dark-haired man to pause.

“Good morning Sire.” Merlin’s voice was tense and quiet, threatening to crack on the last syllable. Arthur grunted in response as he rolled over, hands snaking beneath the pillow to rub at his throbbing temples. “I’ve left your breakfast on the table. I was just going to run some clothes down to the scullery and then—”

“Merlin.” The servant stopped mid-sentence, mouth agape. His face flushed and that feeling, from last night, which dared not speak its name, crept up his spine to lodge in the dark corners of his mind.

“Yes Sire?”

“I will take wine with breakfast.” Merlin started to protest, but Arthur lifted the pillow off his face to cast a bloodshot glare across the room towards his servant, which forced Merlin’s mouth shut. With a slight, obedient bow he withdrew.

Arthur began to take wine with most meals after that. He also called an end to the afternoon training sessions, citing the changing weather, though many suspected his true reasons lay elsewhere. In fact, the Prince seldom left his chambers at all now, often spending many protracted hours in bed, rising only to refill his cup. Feigning illness to assuage Uther’s concerns Arthur secluded himself within the confines of his room, with drink his only companion. And Merlin, of course. For who else would fetch pitcher after pitcher of wine as the Prince languished in his lush stupor? The kitchen staff had of course grown suspicious, never going so far as to voice any direct suspicions, but their raised eyebrows, the murmurs as Merlin retreated laden with a brimming pitcher, spoke volumes enough.

“It’s for boiling, to clean a battle wound,” he said aloud, more to himself than anyone else, but his heart wasn’t in the lie. This did not stop him from speaking it freely, throwing it out whenever there was a prolonged silence or an offhand comment about the sorry state of the wine cellar. Propriety forbid any further questioning, but did little to quell the rumors.

Such duplicity wounded Merlin’s soul. What he would give to run to Gaius, or Morgana, to anyone, pleading for help. But no, this was impossible; no matter how bitterly these deceptions stung Merlin feared the revelation of an even darker truth. It was shocking how quickly one could adapt to such a mummery though, how easily one slipped into costumes, donning masks in a mocking farce. With time, the lies lost their edge, became easier to swallow, the roles lost their awkward fit, the difference between skin and mask slowly faded and disappeared.

After the first week Merlin stopped bothering to bring up breakfast when he fetched Arthur his morning drink—he never touched a single morsel. Once he left the kitchen, silver tray in one hand, heavy jug in the other, Merlin would hand the plate off to some serving boy or other, or else swing round the kennels and feed the scraps to the hounds. He saved the bread though, tucking it up beneath his sleeve for later; in the evening, normally between his second and third pitcher, Arthur would demand a loaf, ripping off chunks to dunk slovenly into his cup before forcing the entire soaked mass into his slack-jawed maw. At least, Merlin though desperately, he is eating _something_.

On this particular morning, as Merlin worked the door open, a full pitcher cradled in the crook of his elbow, the servant found the curtains still drawn against the late-morning glow. The air in the room was stiff with musk—when had the windows last been opened? Arthur did not stir as Merlin made his way to the stained table, placing the jug down on a sticky patch of red. Bedlam reigned over the whole chamber; clothes, soaked or stained, strewn helter-skelter over chairs and floor. Merlin knelt beside the bed to collect the previous evening’s cup, which had fallen from Arthur’s grasp sometime in the night. As he rose his eyes alighted on the body beside him. One could almost forget everything, watching the Prince sleep. Merlin had seen many men lost to drink, back home and here in Camelot, saw them grow fat and round as the barrels they clung to, watched as they wasted away in heavy, heaving messes. But it was not like that with Arthur. It was as if he had somehow become more beautiful, as if the wine washed from him every stress and worry he had ever born upon his regal shoulders, as if his muscles had never one tensed in anguish or agony. A strand of matted hair stuck to his forehead—how easy it would be, fingers floating through space, to brush it aside, to cup that pallid face and—the Prince stirred, rolled over in his sleep. Merlin left in a flush.

“How is Arthur fairing?” Gaius asked upon Merlin’s return. The old man was laying pouches of herbs in his bag, sandwiching various vials filled with colored, dancing liquids.

“He’s fine, should be back on his feet any day now.”

“Perhaps I should examine him myself, what with this illness lingering as it is.”

“How will I ever learn anything about medicine if I never get a chance to practice?” Merlin smiled despite himself, remembering when lying to Gaius had been next to impossible. “Are you heading out?”

“Just to an outlying village. There’s been an outbreak of fever and I’m going to see what I can do to treat it. Why don’t you come along, I’d be grateful for the help, especially coming from the newly appointed court physician,” Gaius laughed good-naturedly as he snapped his satchel shut and swung it over his shoulder.

Merlin thought of Arthur, who would surely wake soon, would fill the first of many cups, would bring it, still half asleep, to his violet-hued lips, throat rising and falling as he drank deep. Perhaps, from the corner of his mouth, a single bead would run down the course grain of his stubbled cheek to fall from the precipice of his jaw to the floor.

“I think some sunlight and fresh air would do me a world of good.”

* * *

The fever, as it was, turned out to be a rash of sweating sickness. One of the farmers, on a previous journey to a nearby market, must have picked it up. What with the close quarters and poor hygiene, the illness spread rapidly, felling all it came into contact with. Thankfully the medicine was relatively simple to produce, nothing more complicated than a boiled mixture of ground yarrow and mint, with a dash of holy basil. But the potion took time to brew and steep, and some of the more infirm villagers had developed complications. Merlin worked for the better part of the day, running to the well for clean water, grinding herbs for Gaius, tilting an elderly woman’s head so she could take a draught of the freshly prepared remedy. As the sun began to set over the western treetops Gaius washed his hands in a basin, drying them on an offered rag.

“With some rest, everyone should make a full recovery,” he told the villager elder, a tanned fellow with ridges etched along his speckled brow.

“Thank you, God bless you Sire.” The old man shook Gaius’s hand heartily, head bowed graciously.

Merlin, now-emptied satchel slung over his shoulder, went to saddle the horses for the ride back to the citadel. The light would shortly leave them, and though the road home was well maintained the going would be slow; they could not risk galloping the horses, lest one trip over some unseen root or rock and break a leg. What was Arthur doing now? Had he even noticed Merlin’s absence? Most likely he had, once all the wine had been drunk and no one came to replace it. Would he be cross, would he seek to punish his errant servant? Arthur had never struck him, not really, but for some reason, the thought of the Prince raising a hand to him did not seem all that unfeasible or frightening.

“Ready to go Merlin?” Gaius asked as he gingerly mounted his steed.

The moon, a polished pearl, hung high in the sky when their horses eventually crossed the drawbridge, hooves echoing off the deserted courtyard. Gaius went to rouse a stable boy to see to the mounts, leaving Merlin alone. The windows, somber glass panes rung round the immense walls, were all darkened, their inhabitants having long since gone to bed. All, save one. It was faint, and had Merlin not spent agonizing minutes watching, wind ruffling his hair, the cold working itself into the tips of his fingers, he would have easily overlooked it, the dim glow haloed in Arthur’s window.

Before he could think his feet were moving, wending their way through the corridors and up the stairs, till Merlin stood before the all-too-familiar oaken door. Even with his ear pressed against the wood he could hear nothing. Surely the Prince had fallen asleep ages ago, simply having forgotten to extinguish his candles, surely…

The latch was unhooked so, as Merlin pushed against the handle, the door swung inwards with little more than a rustle of displaced air. He was met with almost total obscurity, his eyes adjusting slowly as he left the luminous hallway with its blazing torches. Shutting the door behind him, Merlin squinted against the darkness. From across the room a dim glow burned in the fireplace where a heap of orange coals gave off their final moments of heat and illumination. And sure enough, as his eyes swept round, Merlin saw a single flame, nearly buried in a mound of wax, flickering on the table.

And there he was. Slumped down low in his seat, back to Merlin and the door, head lolled to the side, cheek resting on shoulder. His fingers wrapped loosely around the stem of a goblet, precariously resting on the arm of the chair. He was asleep, or recently had been, but now sensing, with that preternatural sense afforded to drunks, a new presence, Arthur lifted his head as he straightened in his seat. Merlin could flee, before Arthur could turn, before he saw him, before—

“Who’s there?” The slurred words stumbled out of Arthur’s mouth as he twisted in his seat.

“It’s just me, Arthur. I’m sorry I’ve been gone all day.” Though he whispered, Merlin’s words seemed to boom in the ruptured silence of the room. “It is late, you should be getting to bed. Do you require anything else this evening?”

“Come here Merlin.” With measured steps he wound his way to the other side of the table to stand before the libatious throne. He could not meet the Prince’s gaze, did not trust himself to look into those blue, bloodshot eyes, not here, not now, so he kept his head bowed in deference.

“Yes Sire?”

“Kneel.”

With a soft thud Merlin sank to his knees, his thin trousers little protection against the cold stone. He knew what was expected of him. The floor felt dirty beneath his fingers as he placed his hands on either side of Arthur’s foot, body pitched forward as he slowly fell, lips pursed. His blood burned, his heart ran rampant, an exquisite pressure pressed against the seam of his britches. So close now, the stench of leather filled his nose, somewhere above him he could hear heavy breathing, could feel the eyes on the back of his head as he lowered down, down, down.

From the hall came a vociferous clatter—perhaps a maid had dropped a stack of serving trays, perhaps a guard had knocked his shield against the wall absentmindedly—but Merlin hadn’t the time to identify it. At the sudden clamor Arthur, startled, jerked round, foot rising swiftly as he twisted in his seat. The movement was too quick, the force too violent, for Merlin to block or avoid it; the toe of Arthur’s boot connected with his nose, sending him reeling backwards. His back collided with the floor, his head smacking down with resounding force. There was a stinging clog rapidly filling his nose, and as he began to rise thick trickles ran down the ridges of his lips. Merlin’s fingers, ghosting across the throbbing mass of cartilage, came back red; an unpleasant taste of iron clung to the back of his throat. He rose uncertainly to his feet, the room spun round his head as he tried to stumble past Arthur’s chair towards the door.

Only now did the Prince notice his servant, his dulled senses having till that moment been focused on the noise from outside. Braced against the back of the chair, Arthur rose to his feet to grab Merlin’s arm as he made his way past. His eyes could not focus, did not take in the rivulets of blood streaming down the other man’s face. Merlin tried to twist out of Arthur’s grasp, but as soon as they were brushed off the Prince’s fingers entwined once more in the faded fabric of his tunic. And then he was falling to his knees, forced down by a sharp, sudden push. Arthur released his arm, only to snatch a fistful of dark hair on the back of Merlin’s head. Face titled upwards, the young man could see the deliberate concentration on the Prince’s face as he drunkenly worked at the laces of his britches, never once daring to look at the helpless body kneeling before him.

Of course, he was not truly helpless. Off the top of his head Merlin could think of half a dozen spells that could serve to free him from this situation. All it would take, all he needed to do was whisper a few arcane syllables, focus his energy on the man holding him—but no, he could never risk such magic before Arthur. The fear of revelation, of reprisal, stalled his hand, effaced his words. _You are protecting yourself_ , Merlin repeated, like a mantra, silently, _that is the reason you’re not fighting back. That is the only reason._

Just then, his head was thrust forward, face buried in the silken fabric of Arthur’s trousers. Musk chocked him as he gasped, filling his throat, as Arthur ground his servant’s face into the length of hardened flesh straining against the stitches of his pants. Nimbler fingers were required to undo the knots that held the britches against the Prince’s hips; with a few, deft tugs Merlin had then undone, hands falling useless into his lap as Arthur worked the hem down past the curve of his buttocks to rest it mid-thigh.

The prince bobbed buoyant in front of Merlin’s face, the tip mere inches from his nose. Arthur’s hand seized him by the jaw, thumb working past his lips to pry open his mouth, pressing down on his teeth. And then he was tasting him. He filled Merlin’s mouth, hot and briny, as Arthur began to move his hips, sliding forwards and back, holding fast to his servant’s hair and chin. Merlin’s eyes began to water, he found it hard to breathe as Arthur beat persistently against the back of his throat. He feared he would be sick, throat constricting as he gagged and fought the bile back down. Arthur was insistent, he bucked like a beast in heat, never slowing, never stopping. Merlin’s mouth filled with drool, coating the prince till it spilled out the sides, dribbling down his chin to pool on the floor. The Sorcerer shut his eyes, tried to draw air in through his nose, tried to ignore the gnawing pit in his stomach, the heat of his own groin.

A pungent taste shot across Merlin’s tongue, thick and salty, as Arthur’s movements grew erratic. He lost all rhythm, began to thrust frantically, fingers tearing at the dark strands of hair knotted between his fingers, nails digging into the flesh of Merlin’s face. With a shudder he released his hold on his servant’s head, staggering backwards. Merlin turned his face away and spat the wad of milky discharge onto the floor. By the time he rose to his feet, slowly, a stab through each knee as they unbent, Arthur had already shuffled to bed, collapsing upon the covers and pillows. Merlin ignored the heaving and the gentle creak of the rocking bedframe, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, and limped to the chamber door. For a moment, just a moment, he paused, hand on the wall, and listened as Arthur shook with the weight of his remorse. Then he walked out, shutting the door on his Prince’s sobs.

Gaius was naturally disquieted at the sight of him the next morning, rushing to his side as soon as Merlin emerged from his bedroom. It was simple enough to invent some unfortunate spill down a flight of stairs, chiding the late hour and his well-known clumsiness, assuring the physician that he was alright, but sitting patiently as he allowed him to bandage his nose nonetheless. He refused the old man’s recommendation of a day spent convalescing in bed, feigning that, _really, he was fine_. The truth, though, was that to stay in bed, to avoid Arthur, would mean to admit it was real, that it had actually happened, had not, in fact, been simply the façade of some cruel nightmare. He could not confront Arthur, what he had done, or what it had done to him. So he would attend his Prince, would serve him on bended, bruised knee, and carry on as if nothing had changed, for what was one more lie to a life of mendacity?

The kitchen staff cooed and sighed empathetically, clicking their tongues when told of his fall, reminding him to _be more careful next time_ , and to be thankful that it _hadn’t been any worse than it was_. He did not take the offered tray of food, just a pitcher of wine, mumbling some incoherent excuse as to why breakfast would not be required. Then he wended his way, step after step, back towards Arthur’s room, heart rising in his throat in place of last night’s bile.

To his surprise, when he pushed open the door, Merlin found Arthur, awake, standing at his table. For a moment, the briefest instant, he considered hurling the jug at the Prince’s face, of shouting, of running away. But he stepped calmly forward, placing the wine down on the table, avoiding the Prince’s gaze.

“Merlin, your face, what happened?” Arthur asked, voice pregnant with concern, as he reached a tender hand out towards Merlin’s nose. The servant flinched away from the touch, retreating backwards. Merlin closed his eyes and tried to slow the rapid beating of his heart. Reopening, his eyes fell on the spot he had knelt the night before; his knees ached, remembering. The floor was spotless, save for a swath of damp stone where someone had wiped it clean. He turned to stare at Arthur. There was a twinge in the muscles round the Prince’s eyes, as if some great strain were exerting all its force against him. Arthur did not want the truth. What he wanted was absolution. He wanted Merlin to give him what the wine never could—salvation, wanted to be cleansed of the falsehood he had built round his existence, he wanted acceptance, reconciliation, perhaps even—

Merlin could not give him this, not now. The wound was too fresh, too raw. And what would forgiveness change? Would he resume the life he had always led, obedient servant, or, in light of everything, could things be different, could he possibly hope for…for more? No, what Arthur needed, what they _both_ needed, was time.

“I…fell. That’s all.”

And Merlin loved him enough to at least give him that.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so very much for reading, I do hope you enjoyed it. This piece was heavily influenced by Tennessee William's "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof." If you haven't seen the play or movie, I recommend you go out and read/watch it. 
> 
> I welcome any thoughts or suggestions you might have. And again, thank you so much for reading.
> 
> P.S. I don't know the Ao3 etiquette when it comes to comments (responding to each one individually, etc.) so let me just say to all those who commented or gave kudos on my previous story, thank you from the deepest part of my heart. It is your overwhelming support that keeps me coming back and posting work. Thank you.


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